One Way to Outrun a Cop
Like every other emotionally damaged person coming to L.A., I arrived with big dreams of cash and stardom which would hopefully provide validation for my low self-esteem. I had no reason to logically believe I would ever become rich or famous. I simply had a decent rack and was reasonably cute. That’s it. I literally had no acting skills whatsoever. But I figured if Jennifer Aniston could marry hot dudes and make a career of acting like herself for 20 years, I could do it too.
Having finally accomplished driving from the East to the West coast, I was ready for a job. Sadly, the only experience I had was working the concession at an AMC Movie Theater. I didn’t need the money, but I had a shopping addiction that needed a constant cash infusion. Plus, I needed to be away from my family as much as humanly possible. I wanted to be a ticket taker, but you had to start at the bottom of the barrel in concession. This meant I had to serve popcorn and pretzels to a bunch of bratty kids and their even shittier parents while wearing a super sexy tuxedo with a bow tie. In exchange, I received minimum wage and all the free popcorn, pretzels, and soda a girl on a low-fat diet could want. I looked completely hideous in the uniform and I had to pull my hair back in an unsightly ponytail[1]. But it was my first taste of real freedom, so I was more excited than a dog in heat.
The point is, I had almost no real job experience. The idea of waiting tables (like every other wannabe actor) filled me with a dread I didn’t want to face. I possessed the organizational skills of a monkey. I constantly forgot to do my homework when I was in school, my closet consistently looked like it had just been ransacked by fashionable burglars, and I lost things so often I just became accustomed to buying two of everything. There was no way I could possibly wait tables without fucking up royally.
I needed a plan B. While skimming through the L.A. Weekly, I spotted an exceptionally compelling ad:
“Do you want to make $1500-$3000 a week AND travel around the country? Call 818–555–1212.”
It sounded like the perfect job! I could travel and make money. Plus $1500 a week? I’d be living L-A-R-G-E until my big break rolled around. Surely, I wouldn’t make that much money as a server. With all that money, I wouldn’t have to work as much and I could fully dedicate myself to studying the craft of acting (seeing as I knew nothing about it) and practicing my poses for future magazine covers.
It seemed like a win-win situation. I called the number and was immediately penciled in for the next orientation at Spin Labs. The next Saturday, I hopped into my car and drove to the Valley. As I was speeding down the 101 freeway towards the job orientation, I noticed a cop car weaving SIDEWAYS across the four lanes. What on earth is he doing? I wondered. I had never seen anything like that in New Jersey or anywhere else for that matter. Strangely enough, all the other cars were letting him hog up the freeway while they drove at a safe distance behind. It was bad enough that no one in L.A. knew how to parallel park. Now it turns out that drivers in L.A. are oddly complacent. I quickly surmised this cop was some sort of renegade on a mission. Or maybe he was a criminal who had stolen a cop car. If it was a stolen vehicle, I knew I needed to get away from him.
I looked for a way out. I was in the far-left lane and he was three to four car lengths in front of me in the second to right lane. It was only a matter of time before he started cutting back left again. So, I put I pressed on the gas and sped straight ahead at one hundred miles an hour. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him careening toward me on my right. He looked like he was going to slam into me on my passenger side. This vigilante is going to kill me! I thought.
I managed to get ahead of him, but he got behind me and turned his lights on. Then I heard “Pull over NOW!” I wasn’t sure how I could hear that as my windows were rolled up. Did he have a bullhorn? Maybe he is a real cop? Why would a thief want to pull me over? Realizing this may have been an actual cop, I started pulling over to the left when I heard “NO! To the right!” So, I crossed the four lanes and pulled over to the right. I turned the music off, put on some lip gloss just in case he was a real cop. Despite being pulled over for multiple infractions, (illegal U-turns, speeding, running red lights, to name a few.), I had yet to receive a ticket. Once I was even pulled over at 3 AM with an open bottle of wine (don’t worry I wasn’t drunk; it was from a picnic I went to earlier) and no registration. I turned on the waterworks and the next thing you know, the officer was apologizing to me. For doing his job no less.
I looked at my side-view mirror to see a very good-looking tan officer walking my way. “Hello, Officer Handsome!” I said with a smile.
No, that’s not what I said. But I wanted to. Instead, I emptied all thoughts from my head, flashed him a huge smile coupled with a blank stare. Akin to the look you might find on one of the Kardashians. Playing dumb is often the best course of action in these situations. He walked up to my window, took off his sunglasses, and smiled. As soon as I saw the giant grin on his face, I knew I was off the hook.
“Do you know why I’m pulling you over?” he asked.
“Omigosh I have no idea, officer.”
“Where are you from?”
“New Jersey.”
“Uh-huh. Can I see your license?”
“Sure.”
He briefly examined it before handing it back. He didn’t even bother with asking for my registration.
“I was doing a speed break. There was a big spill several miles away and I was trying to slow down traffic so drivers don’t run into it and skid all over the road. You wouldn’t want to get into an accident, would you?”
“Omigod, I’m so sorry officer! I had no idea! I thought you were like a renegade cop or something,” I responded. For all I know he really could be a renegade cop and I just gave my license to a maniac who memorized my address and will hunt me down.
“I’ll let you off the hook this time,” he said.
“Thanks!” I sped off eager to make my orientation.
[1] I just don’t have the face for ponytails. I end up looking like Mr. Potato Head.
